Slytherin
by Words-Math-Happiness
Summary: The outcome seems predestined for this little Mudblood. But what happens when the Sorting Hat breaks every unwritten rule?
1. Chapter 1

**Slytherin**

"Awwww, this one is just _adorable."_

. . . in a nauseating sort of way. Sometimes, guessing which House the first-years would go to was just too easy: the latest was a Hufflepuff all the way. How could anyone _smile_ from underneath all that ludicrous hair?! And she was a Mudblood for sure: walking uncertainly, giving the Sorting Hat funny looks . . . she simply had no _idea_ of wizarding traditions, so how could she belong in their glorious world? Draco set down a few Galleons on the little girl turning out to be a badger; it was such a sure bet, why not?

She cringed a little when her name was read, but Cassiopeia Walshen (what kind of a name was _that?)_ straightened up by twitchy little increments and summoned back her decidedly impertinent smile. What could a Mudblood have to smile about anyway, and how dared she grin like that at wizarding traditions?

The Hufflepuffs and Griffindors, of course, were grinning back indulgently. Probably _hoping_ they got the Mudblood, the idiots.

There was a round of laughter as the Sorting Hat slumped down over Cassiopeia's face, and even louder jeers when it was stopped by her pointy little nose. This little Hufflepuff was almost too pathetic to even laugh at. Almost.

The Sorting Hat took a long while deliberating – maybe getting senile, the choice was as plain as day – and the Mudblood's fixed little grin didn't waver for an instant. Really quite annoying . . .

Then the Hat's voice filled up the Great Hall –

And Draco felt himself freeze in disbelief –

(Cassiopeia smiled wider)

 _"Slytherin!"_


	2. Chapter 2: See the Good Sides Glittering

See the Good Sides Glittering

Chapter 2: Slytherin

Cassiopeia could feel the blood draining out of her face. Every muscle was clamping itself into position and her smile wanted nothing more than to turn pinched and scared. _Not them, not that table –_ she'd heard them jeering, saying what a profanity she was and what they'd do to her. She'd wanted Hufflepuff or Griffindor: the nice duffers and the heroes, wasn't that what she'd been told? Either would have meant protection, but no: what _Cassie_ deserved was to get thrown in with the very creeps that were worrying her.

The girl unfroze rather quickly when she remembered the inferno of eyes on her. Cassiopeia twitched to her feet, removed the hat (very nearly dropping it like a dead rat, which wouldn't have helped her any), and . . . walked. It felt like she was dragging a lead ball past the – the _advantageous_ tables, but what had Dad said? Every situation was a well-cut diamond. She'd turn it to the good facets: _One. Slytherins are clever._ Could she really have made a good career out of a reputation for hotheadedness or pleasant idiocy? (She'd never hack it in Ravenclaw.) _Two. Professor Snape._ They'd said on the train to watch out for this bloke's favouritism, but she could actually _benefit_ from it as a Slytherin.

 _Three._ Cassiopeia's heart quickened. The turnaround, the possibility of playing phoenix in this relatively uncompensated bad luck: _Cunning and driven opponents at the moment, yes. But those same qualities in an_ ally . . . ?

(A twist of melancholy in the excitement, the desperate wish that had so elated her when the Hat yelled – but she shied away from it. _Not now.)_

Cassie settled on the edge of a bench and observed her new Housemates. Things still looked bleak enough to make the air feel stifling, but she thrummed with a strange, apprehensive anticipation: _Here comes my new life . . ._

It began just like her old ones had, with hair pulling and a singsong mockery of the hated Name.


	3. Chapter 3: Behind the Shadows

Behind the Shadows

Chapter 3: Slytherin

The Mudblood was getting more than she'd bargained for in this House, no mistake. First the hostility in the Great Hall, though she seemed to have expected that – and now this. Cassiopeia's permanent _(annoying)_ smile had started wilting, thank heavens, and she was whining for mercy like a Muggle-born _should._

" . . . don't know what you mean, isn't a galleon a sort of ship?"

Crabbe started growling something, but Draco cut in; this was just _too_ good. "A Galleon is a coin. _Mo-ney._ You know, that shiny stuff that everyone has more of than you? I lost three Galleons 'cause you were Sorted into Slytherin, and now I'd like them back."

"I don't have any money on me!" Cassiopeia's eyes were brimming. "Honest. I'd give it to you if I could!"

"Well, we can't have that, eh?" Draco smiled and took a step closer. "Pure-blood asks, Mudblood does. That's how the world works. I'll be nice this time, and give you a choice: would you rather lose your jewelry or your next grade?"

"Can't you be even nicer?" Such forlorn hope, it was really pathetic . . . "Please let me go. Just this once. I can get the Galleons – some extra money too . . ." Cassiopeia trailed off. "This isn't working, is it?"

"As refreshing as it is to have a Mudblood learn so quickly . . ." Draco smirked. "No. – Crabbe, Goyle: don't put her in the Hospital Wing, hey?" Then he spun around and was gone, barely keeping himself from jumping up and down; another Mudblood smacked back into place, and he could scare her _as much as he wanted to._ No consequences, not with Professor Snape around . . .

 **.x.**

But consequences had come, and they were staring him out of countenance. Draco cursed under his breath – _she's just a Mudblood!_ But scenes and feelings fluttered and whirled around until he was so dizzy that he'd stumble into dreams again –

 _He was eight years old and throwing up in an alleyway, nursing broken fingers. Draco had lost a tooth, and it didn't seem to have been one of the loose ones – he was afraid of that. He was especially scared of telling Father how it had happened._

 _. . . Draco's cousins were shocked dumb when he came reeling home – and guilty, too. They'd only meant to smack him around a_ little _bit._

 _Then the boy sobbed out his story, and the cousins stopped fearing punishment. Lucius Malfoy had turned suddenly so cold: "They'll pay, son, because no filthy Mudblood can do that to_ our _kind. But you'll have to prove to me that you'll never make that imbecilic mistake again . . ."_

. . . that imbecilic mistake _. Draco was trying to hide behind his cousins – that was instinct, but it was stupid considering that their actions were what he was hiding from. The Mudblood was trash, sure, but had just been walking_ home _–_

 _"Oi, throw a few kicks, Draco. We've got the filth down already."_

 _But he knew he'd feel awful if he did it, and his cousins had been drinking stronger stuff than Butterbeer; for a moment it seemed like Draco should want to be a part of this, but he couldn't convince himself to._

 _Still, it sounded like a stranger's voice saying_ "No!"

 _"Hey, c'mon!" . . . and they were drunk. They'd been fighting. What started out as a rough rebuke blurred into a quick beating, and then they realized the kid looked awful and ran off. Draco was still lying there dazed when the Mudblood's siblings showed up._

 _(The imbecilic mistake being to refuse – worse, to refuse for the sake of some inchoate notion that the Mudblood should be left alone.)_

 _. . . He was thirteen years old and eight, eleven, one day twenty – hurting and scaring Mudbloods, or more accurately – because he still couldn't stomach actually dealing the blows – using bigger friends to get the same effect. There was a strange, dark thrill to each empowering second, and he stamped very hard on the whisper of horror; maybe one day it would leave him alone. He wasn't an imbecile and he_ wasn't _weak._

 _. . . then Draco was watching Cassiopeia cry, except that her face shifted strangely in a flicker of shadows: she was a_ different _scared and funny-looking kid . . . but Crabbe's sloppy roundhouse blotted out the phantom mirror, and things righted themselves –_

 _Only to shatter and piece together in a very strange new way. He was in one of Goyle's favourite chokeholds, and a gleeful-looking Crabbe was just drawing back for another swing at Draco's face. A pale-haired boy was swirling away in his black robes, which bleached and wavered for a moment into Lucius Malfoy's crisp gray coattails – then whoever-it-was had vanished, leaving Draco alone with a gang of his Crabbe- and Goyle-faced cousins –_

The boy snapped awake and cussed himself out again. Thirteen was too _old_ for nightmares, and this one was patently ridiculous; his father would have _stopped_ the beating! He had nothing in common with Cassiopeia, she was nothing but a Mudblood . . .

Still, Draco's reactions the next day were not what they could have been . . . especially when the Mudblood marched right up to him and made, of all things, a _demand._

 **.x.**

"I'd like my necklace back now, please." Cassiopeia barely held her voice steady; fear was clogging up her throat, but she knew what she wanted and she would darn well get it. _A reminder, Sweetpea. See the facets?_ This was a risk, but _nobody_ took her dad's last present.

"I'm sorry, what?"

He didn't even remember! Oh, _now_ she was mad. "My necklace. The one your goons stole! Give it _back_."

The third-year shook off a little of his stupid daze. "Look, d'you _want_ another beating?"

"No." Cassie refused to shrink; it might've been years since she'd asserted herself like this, but that by no means rendered her incapable. "I want my necklace back. It's from my dad."

"And that makes you care about it." Malfoy's eyes were unreadable, but his face was . . . well, probably as flushed as it could get.

"Yes. It does." Cassie wasn't sure why she was answering that question – wasn't the sentiment just another weakness for this rotter to hit? She felt vaguely sorry for him, though . . . just a very little bit.

"Because he's kind to you." Now Cassiopeia could read the expression: _hunger._ Of a strange kind that she'd never felt. _Maybe a touch_ _more sorry now._

Still, she smiled as she said it – a very cruel thing to say, all things considered – "He's perfect. Necklace, please."

Malfoy handed it over without comment, but something in his silence nudged Cassiopeia's brain into top gear. So this boy had shadows, did he? And the people who really suffered from their shadows were the ones with a tiny, frightened light . . .


	4. Chapter 4: Serpent's Honour

(Draco huddled at the classroom door, ears straining – )

She hadn't counted on her Head of House's favouritism. Or rather, Cassie had known about it and enjoyed it all through class; she'd simply failed to realize that it would bring her to . . . this . . .

This _dilemma,_ that was a good word. This stupid and nonsensical dilemma. There was no reason for it to be difficult; playing canary was actually one of her guilty satisfactions, so why . . . ?

"Miss Walshen, you _do_ understand that I am trying to help you?" Professor Snape's concern had vanished into sharpness, and Cassiopeia felt herself relax accordingly; now _this_ was a familiar scene.

"Of course I understand that, sir."

"Then I will ask my question again, and this time please consider it a bit more carefully. Where did you get that black eye?"

And Cassie did think. She felt herself as the fulcrum of a teeter-totter, each choice adding its weight to crush her down; she balanced the consequences ever . . . so . . . carefully. And the sensible choice was clear, so she opened her mouth –

(Draco was sure his heart would stop. _No no no!)_

What she ended up saying, though, was: "Like I told you before, sir, it was just outside the common room."

Snape's face flickered a few shades darker. "I would like to know _how_ you got it, Miss Walshen, as you are very well aware."

"Oh, sorry, sir. I was punched in the face."

"I'm trying to _help_ you, you –" The teacher reined himself in sharply. "All right, we can do it this way. Who gave you the injury?"

Cassiopeia bit her lip. Tricky one, you could say Malfoy sent it to her – but: "Two big third-years, sir." Discovering none of her maddening, nebulous scruples about _them,_ she went on: "Crabbe, I think, and Goyle. I heard one of them called Vincent once."

"Ah, yes. I know the pair – now we're _getting_ places. Were they . . . directed . . . by anyone?"

Surely here was a way out: _Sweetpea, don't lie. Starve the truth and you'll go hungry._ Dad absolutely trumped irrational reluctance!

(Cold sweat, ears ringing so loud that he barely heard the next faint proceedings – )

Her ever-whirring brain disregarded Cassiopeia's relief and fed her a slick line that only prolonged this irritating state of being _merciful._ She hated it and flushed with mischief at the same time – "I don't think they needed any encouragement, sir." Flawless truth, she was a Mudblood after all!

Snape sighed. "Listen, it's very obvious that you're Muggle-born. No one from an old family has your face . . . or hair."

Cassiopeia smiled ruefully. _There's gingers and there's Walshens._ "Too true, sir."

"That's not a safe thing to be in Slytherin."

"Precious little I could ever do about it, sir."

Did she imagine the smile? "A good point, but I can request a transfer for you – Hufflepuff is always welcoming, I hear."

(Would a Puffy have defended him like that?)

Cassie's pride shuddered, then blazed: _Like hell I'm quitting now!_ Always speak mildly, though . . . "I'd like to stay where I was Sorted if at all possible, please, sir." If the lonely little wish was weighing in on this, then let it – see if she cared. And _if_ the over-arching plan was making choices for her, wasn't that just proof she was alive?

"Then I will try to see that you don't regret it. Don't stand around, now – I'm sure you have something you can do somewhere else."

(Draco was still shaking when the classroom door opened. Relief seemed to have leached all his feelings away; the boy couldn't even get nervous while fleeing down the hall.)

 **.x.**

"So, uh, you . . . didn't get me in trouble." The moment felt as choking-heavy as the greenhouse air, but it had to be now; the epicentre of this sweating clamour was the best place to talk unnoticed. Draco could barely decipher his own _thoughts_ in the echoing babble.

Cassiopeia grabbed a gardening tool and began chopping a wad of dirt into its crumbling component muck. "Believe me when I say I _wanted_ to."

"Were you scared?"

"I couldn't make myself feel right about it." Finished on the lump, she rammed her little trowel into the nearest flowerbed – it stuck there quivering. "Look at my _face,_ pure-blood! Why should I do _anything_ for you? Why should I feel _sorry_ for you, how can I look at you and see –" Brick walls didn't stop people so short. "Sorry. Not myself."

Draco _was_ looking at her face, and all the puffy colours were upsetting his stomach. _(Sorry?)_ "What do you mean, feel right about it?"

"I know my dad wouldn't approve." The Mudblood seemed a little calmer – no control.

Apparently a perfect father, though. Before his brain had even sanctioned it, Draco was saying: "Tell me about him. – He sounds interesting," the boy added as a sop to Cassie's volatile temper.

A whisper of thought and presence dawned back into her face – and a somewhat cracked smile bloomed. "Sure. He read me the classics every night until I left for school, and whenever I complained about the weather he'd call me a dopey fuss. It was all in fun, though. We did everything together, back home. He gave me a lot of sayings, you know the type – _anger's a feast but you're eating yourself,_ that sort of thing. He talked to me like an equal, even when I was small . . ."

 **.x.**

Cassiopeia was speaking in anecdotes by the end of Herbology; it was easier to sketch the impressions Dad left than the man himself. She felt herself come alive with a highly uncalled-for honey glow when Malfoy seemed to pay attention – thankfully, that disturbing phenomenon was far less common than red-hot annoyance. _Tiny, frightened light,_ she reminded herself, and _I need an ally._ She didn't trust this posh, moody kid, but Dad . . . Dad would be beaming with joy, despite his Sweetpea's constant ulterior motive.

Actually, he'd be glad about that, too.

Particularly when the first triumph seemed to be edging closer all the time.


	5. Chapter 5: Benevolent Neglect

Benevolent Neglect

Chapter 5: Slytherin

"Well!" The Headmaster beamed over the Great Hall like a child counting sweets. "How has the first week gone? Severus?"

He jumped. "Sorry? I wasn't listening." Walshen was nowhere to be seen; hopefully she was just wearing a hat. Another beating and he'd _have_ to do something.

"How have our Slytherins been doing this week?"

 _Ah, right._ "Well, there's the usual trouble – my first-years are targets for the whole school – and the new Muggle-born has quite a few bruises. From her own Housemates, I'm ashamed to say."

"Have you found out which ones?" (Strange, how those eyes could twinkle even with concern.)

"Yes: Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. They're third-years, and the size of little trolls."

"The morals, too, it sounds like – "

 _"Minerva._ Were they taking direction from young Mr. Malfoy as usual?"

Sometimes the man's breadth of knowledge was uncanny. "I'm almost certain of it, but Miss Walshen gave me quite the runaround when I tried to ask."

"Well, I call that _excellent_ news. What about the rest of you? Notice anything?"

Sprout frowned. "A little slip of a thing was in tears and yelling earlier – not one clue what about. Your Malfoy got quite flushed, though."

Severus cursed under his breath and scanned the ranks of Slytherins. If she'd irritated Draco and was even now collecting bruises – but Gregory and Vincent were lodged at the table and stuffing themselves, so surely not.

 _Beaten up already and practically made of twigs._

Right, that was it. "Albus – I don't see her. I'm going down to look." His responsibility, his second chance . . .

Severus spotted the increasingly florid black eye first, then the bright yellowy hair escaping from a rather shapeless plaid cap. _Drat_ the child, she'd given him a heart attack –

But he forgot that when he noticed the other face, pale and flushed in blotches, eyes lit up with a strange intensity. Slowly, it registered that Cassiopeia was talking with warm animation –hardly what would be expected, considering last night's events. Neither student even glanced up at their Head of House.

The teacher stood at loose ends for a moment, caught between mistrust and disbelief; this was the sort of resolution that _Hufflepuffs_ got. On the other hand, Miss Walshen had already won a small victory in making Draco listen – if she could _possibly_ succeed the rest of the way, then . . .

Severus bit back a laugh and left his unprecedented first-year to it. _Minerva will never believe this!_

 **.x.**

Draco hadn't meant to start the conversation, but it had him spellbound. Cassiopeia's eyes were dancing like firelight, she had turned all magnetic and brightly _alive –_ no one talked this way about Lucius Malfoy, and it seemed vaguely obscene that a Muggle workman got such high praise instead. Discomfort prodded at the boy to change the subject, but Cassie was in the middle of a story –

She was a Mudblood, so who cared?

 _Erm, a very_ interesting _story._ So Draco found himself asking for another, and another once that was done; the first-year never seemed to get bored. As for himself, he was steadily drawn farther into curiosity and interest – even a detached, temporary sort of empathy.

 _A family of_ Muggles!

Well, yes, but they were . . . entertaining. For a time. He could forget about them as soon as it pleased him!

Cassiopeia launched into the next story without prompting: a little tale about a family Christmas at which her aunt (apparently the only other witch in the family) partook a tad heavily of the eggnog and turned her neice's goldfish lurid green. To his utter shock, Draco found himself responding with the rather infamous incident when, after one shot too many of Firewhisky, one or the other of his older cousins had made all Mrs. Malfoy's hair drop off.

He had _no_ business feeling so bubbly when the Mudblood laughed.

 **.x.**

Albus could even twinkle _softly,_ of all things – he looked happier than he'd been in years, watching Cassiopeia say . . . whatever it was that could actually bring Draco out of that pure-blood shell. (Severus would give almost anything to know what those words _were.)_ "Well, my friend . . . it seems that Miss Walshen has more magic than we've ever managed to teach."

Even Minerva had nothing all that caustic to add. She opened her mouth a couple of times, then settled for: "I thought that was music, Albus?"

The Headmaster just kept on smiling. "Wouldn't you say this is a miracle too?"

 _Right, now I'm just queasy – thanks._ "We can't know that anything will come of this. Besides, Lucius could easily undo any success there is."

He'd only meant it as a way to dispel some of the syrup, but Albus turned abruptly grim. "Yes, we . . . should talk about that later. This could actually turn out to be dangerous."

Severus turned cold all over and wished to God that he'd been spared understanding what the Headmaster meant.


End file.
